Joga
by CAKEMAN
Summary: A stupid oneshot I wrote one day on the way to class.  And I decided to continue it.  Hey nonny nonny, read and review.
1. tear it with your hands

Author's Notes: Well here it is, the first piece of fanfic I've turned out in a while. One-shot? Maybe. Depends on what you people think of it.

Anyway, it's about what happens after Kyle left with Mila--just a short bit of writing about what it'd be like traveling across the country with him. Hope it doesn't bore you! CAKEMAN 3

* * *

"So, what's your name sweetie?"

Kyle sat back and crossed his legs, pointedly looking off to the side. He really didn't like this woman's attitude but, much to his annoyance, Mila either didn't notice or didn't care.

"I'm Mila." She smiled that disarming smile, and Kyle thought—foolishly—that maybe things would be all right. "We were looking for a good place to stay, but all the other hotels along the way were occupied or dirty. So may we please stay here?"

"Of course, dear. We have plenty of rooms available!" The woman behind the counter smiled warmly at Mila, and then shot Kyle that evil accusing glare that he'd grown so accustomed to lately.

He stood up, now fully tired of looking at the proprietor's face. As he approached the desk, the woman gave him what some might have called a smile; in truth, she looked more like she was baring her teeth at him. "Two rooms, then?" She asked.

Kyle walked up next to Mila and slapped his hand down on the counter—perhaps a little too hard. He returned the older woman's beastly expression two-fold, and a spark of life returned to his dull eyes for a moment, fueled only by his frustration and bitterness. "_One_ room is all we can afford, thank you."

Of course, there was only one bed in their room that night. Kyle grumbled under his breath while he climbed out of his street clothes—Mila changed into her pajamas in the little bathroom up by the door. He probably could have gotten the woman to bring him a cot, but he simply didn't feel like dealing with her anymore. Let the woman think what she wanted—he and Mila would be gone by morning, and it would all soon be forgotten. He sighed and stared at his haggard face in the vanity mirror until he couldn't look anymore. "Mila," he leaned gently against the thin wooden bathroom door as he spoke. "Mila, you get the bed tonight, alright? There's an armchair here that I can sleep on."

"But Mr. Hyde, you need to drive tomorrow. Why would you try to sleep on a chair when you need rest?" He didn't even know why he bothered asking anymore, when he knew full well that she'd refuse him that decency.

It wasn't her fault—she was too naïve to know what their closeness implied, what it looked like and felt like to others. And somehow, Kyle simply didn't want to be the one to teach her.

"Mila… you don't have to call me 'Mr. Hyde.' Kyle is fine." After several months of her calling him by his surname, Kyle was starting to feel more like her hired help than like her… her what? What was his relationship to her even supposed to be anymore? What was a friend who was also a protector, a provider and a teacher? What was his affection for her—was he even capable of that? If he had love for her, and if he'd given it to her, what exactly was she supposed to do with it? A sad day, to be more fit for thralldom than love. But he didn't dare ask for more.

When she came back out into the room, Kyle was sitting there on the bed with the cheap cotton coverlet drawn up over his legs. He was reading the day's paper, a small-town rag filled with news that didn't matter to a passer-by—that scarcely was minded by the locals themselves. She looked at him for a moment, her head tilted slightly to one side. He always seemed so sad, and she thought she knew why. His friend Bradley was gone—he was a murderer and a traitor, and he was too ashamed to face Kyle.

This was as much as she knew about the matter, though she'd often pondered those few things—that she was never going to see her father again, that she didn't know where he was buried, that she was traveling with the one who'd once been closest to her father's killer. And oh, the things she'd learned about her father's life, let alone his death: he'd lived off of the ignorance of the people around him, fooling people out of their money and, in Bradley's case, their freedom and their dignity. It was overwhelming, and sometimes she'd cry—she didn't know whom to cry for, though—and sometimes Kyle would wake up to hear her. He'd sit up and hold her without saying a word, and she'd never tell him why she was upset. Not that she could have. She wouldn't have known what to say.

Kyle finally set the paper down on the floor next to the bed, and the sudden noise shook Mila out of her thoughts. He pulled back the covers for her—Mila would sleep under the sheet. She only vaguely knew why there had to be something between them, and was certain she'd seen something like it on TV years ago. She couldn't remember though, and thought it was stupid. But she always tried to appease him in this, hoping he'd give her an explanation someday. She smiled at him and climbed into bed.

"Can I really call you Kyle?"

"Yeah." A pause, and then, "Honestly? I hate it when you call me Mr. Hyde."

"Really? Sorry…"

"Don't worry about it." He reached over and turned out the light. It was so pitch black in the room, but she could hear him as he slid down into the blanket and rested his head on the pillow. She always knew he was there—she could hear him even when he left the room, his words echoing in her heart, what he'd told Rosa that night… _I want to set her free… she won't have to face this alone._ She smiled and rolled over, her eyes growing accustomed to the darkness.

"Good night, Kyle."


	2. letters from Abelard

Author's Notes: Who am I kidding? Of course I wrote more!

Here, take it! Just promise me you won't choke on it...

* * *

"Mila, it's time to go. Come on." Kyle touched her shoulder, gently shaking her out of her dream. For Mila, it was like slowly being pulled out of deep water.

"_Take my hand, Mila…"_

Mila's hand moved across the sheets to where he'd been sleeping, and then opened her eyes. Nothing was there, it was only a dream. She blinked and sat up, and looked sheepishly at Kyle. "Good morning, Mr.—uhh… good morning, Kyle."

"You'll get used to it. Now come on—checkout's in twenty minutes. We overslept."

"Oh…" She stretched and got up, and went into the bathroom to dress quickly. Kyle was already in his clothes, and had everything packed up. They went downstairs, and Mila dragged the suitcase with her to the car while Kyle paid for the room.

All he wanted to do was give the woman his money and leave without a word. But the proprietor was having none of that.

"So, how's your_daughter_?" Her voice dripped with contempt. Kyle knew what she was really asking. No one really ever thought that Mila was his daughter, and they both knew it. He sneered and turned to leave, but then she said something that really got to him. "I hope her father finds you, sicko…"

He stopped and turned on his heel, and stormed back over to the table. Maybe it was the look in his eye, but the woman suddenly seemed afraid. She glanced at the phone, like she was thinking of calling the cops on him, but then she found herself staring right into his eyes as he brought his face—just a little too close for comfort. She could see the tiny red veins in the sallow whites of his eyes, the contracted pupils set in their dull blue irises, lightless tunnels leading to a cold empty void. But most importantly, she could see all the pent-up rage and hatred.

He just stared at her for a second, watched her mouth open and close a few times as she tried to think of something snappy to say. And then he backed away a bit, calming down just enough to keep the tone of his voice nice and even. "If you find him, then let me know." With that, he left before she could say something else.

He sat down in the driver's seat and slammed the door, and just glared out the side window for a bit. Mila rubbed her arm and looked down at her knees, afraid to speak. It took her a moment to work up her courage, to remember that he wasn't mad at her.

"Kyle… she… was she mean to you?"

He sighed—that was a Hell of a way to put it. He rubbed his eyes and turned the ignition. "Don't worry about it. People say—"

"—Say stupid things." She nodded and smiled faintly, and picked up her book, an old middle-school biology text. "I remember you telling me last time. It's their first instinct, you said."

Kyle sat back in the seat, and then put the car in reverse, reaching up to adjust the rearview mirror. "Right, and someday I'll tell you what they're all saying. But first you need to learn some things."

Mila nodded again, searching for where she left off in the book. She wanted to travel with Kyle, but there was so much she had to learn. He'd solved the problem for her by buying her books, pawning them off when she no longer needed or wanted them. She brought her school with her in that way, all the while tearing through the collective knowledge of man, devouring it all, searching secretly and desperately for what Kyle wanted her to know. He wouldn't tell her what she was looking for—he only said that it would make sense when she someday found it.

She smiled again, her head bowed so he couldn't see. She thought he was so clever—he was like a sage, passing all of his knowledge to his acolyte, but not without a challenge. He thought she was worthy of the task, and she wouldn't let him down.

A few minutes passed before they were out of the town altogether, and back on the road. He didn't take his eyes off the road but once, to see Mila hunched over her book, intently studying its contents. He smiled faintly. "Hey Mila, did I tell you where we're headed?"

She looked up at him and shook her head.

"Chicago. Ed wants me to do a job up there." He saw her eyes light up, and had to look away to keep his calm exterior intact. "We'll spend a few days there, alright?"

"Can we see the tower?"

"Only if you can tell me what it's called."

She thought for a moment. "Sears Tower?"

"Right." He glanced back over at her out the corner of his eye. She was grinning ear-to-ear, he could see it through her hair as she stuck her nose back in her textbook once more. He shook his head and looked back at the road, and then he did a double take.

Was her face red?


	3. Teenager

Good day, long time no update eh? Well here it is, the third chapter. Just as short as the other two, and just as inconclusive--just how you like'm... .

Speaking of you guys' preferences, I've gotten five--count 'em, five!--reviews thus far, and I'm excited that a) you guys are giving me the time of day, and b) you trust me, in spite of a mountain of evidence, to update. I will attempt to do just that; I will finish this fanfic if it kills me.

Now, a certain **AmyCake** writes with some concern about the glaring age difference--mentally in particular--between Kyle and our li'l Mila. This is a valid point m'dear, especially in our modern society of prolonged youth and age segregation (plus pedophiles suck, amirite?) Kyle's no pedo, as you'll see, and at any rate things are severely complicated so it'll be tough for the both of them. I also ask you to wait and see what happens--you guys never know where this story will lead... X3

Now enough talk--you came here for story! Don't let me ruin it!

* * *

Her nose wrinkled as she brought it to her face. "It smells so strong… how much onion is in here?"

"It's a gyro—it's supposed to be like that." He watched her as she looked the sandwich over suspiciously. "It's not gonna bite you, Mila. Trust me, it's good."

She looked up at him, then back at the gyro. It was so jam-packed with meat and tomato and onion, and then there was the lumpy white sauce that kept plopping out of it onto the foil. After a childhood of pre-cut spaghetti, and grilled-cheese sandwiches, and peanut butter on white bread, none of those things looked like they should have been in a pita together. And how exactly was she supposed to take a bite without it erupting all over her face? She sighed and closed her eyes, and sank her teeth into it.

The meat shavings (meat_ shavings!_) were more oily than juicy, and they were crispy on the edges. The pita itself tasted like it was fried in butter; the thing wasn't even cut open like a pocket. Everything was piled on and bound together with a flimsy paper wrapper. The onions certainly made up for what the meat lacked in juices, and what was with that big tomato slice? But the sauce had a pleasant cooling effect in the face of that garlicky onslaught, with bits of cucumber adding more flavor to it than one would think.

The short of it was that this gyro was the tastiest thing Mila had ever eaten, against all logic and in spite everything that her other senses were telling her.

"It's good, isn't it?" She nodded, and he smiled as he picked up a French fry off the flattened paper bag, a makeshift plate for their greasy side dish. "Trust me, I know good food."

"I trust you," she whispered, under the cover of the gyro. She was pretty sure he could read lips too.

They ate in silence, engrossed in their early supper, and then Kyle stood up. "I need to make a quick phone call. I'll be right back." He walked over to the payphone by the bathrooms, discretely keeping Mila in his line of sight the whole time. He dialed up Ed's office number, and wasn't surprised to hear Rachel on the other line. Neither was he pleased, though.

"Red Crown Home Products, this is Rachel." A long pause, no heavy breathing or background noise—this told her all she needed to know, and her voice became just a bit colder. "I'll put Ed on."

A moment of silence. The sound of Rachel murmuring to the boss-man. Kyle sighed and looked out the diner window. Finally, Ed's voice. "Yeah, this is Ed. What's the good word, Kyle? You in Chicago yet?"

"Yeah, I'm here. Now tell me where I'm going."

"It's a place called Striae, and you'll probably be staying there for a while."

"Striae, huh? Sounds uppity. And expensive. Good thing you're reimbursing me."

"Yeah well, guess these clients of ours ain't _always_ too cheap. You got a pen? Here's the address."

Somewhere on the Northwest side of town, about twenty minutes from their current location, free parking with a stamp on the parking stub. He wrote it all down, and sat back down with Mila. When she saw him coming she covered her mouth hastily. "What?"

"Kyle, I think I'm going to need a breath mint."

"Yeah. Probably."


	4. via grigia

Here we go--yet another one. And look, it's upwards of 800 words. Revolutionary! I apologize for the contents of this chapter--but Kyle Hyde's an angst-butt and we all know it. I'm just sorry you have to witness it.

Ooh! And I bet you can't guess who the mystery-man is... :3

* * *

Striae, as it turned out, wasn't a hotel. It was a bar.

It was near the Gold Coast, crammed in between two small apartment buildings, one with a pricey-looking hair salon in the basement. On the end of the street was a very old Lutheran church with a gated courtyard; Kyle always wondered why on Earth a house of God would need gates (yet he never cared enough to investigate further). The street was small and quiet, with nice-yet-reasonably priced cars parked all along the tree-lined curbs. The sidewalk on the other side of the road was made of moss-covered bricks, an almost cheerful red path separated from drab, august bungalows by iron fences and narrow lawns of lush green ryegrass. It seemed strange to Kyle that such a peaceful place could be so close to the downtown area—only two blocks away was the busy shopping district on Michigan Avenue.

Striae itself was a four-story building of dark, dull stone, with a homey front stoop that made Kyle suspect it was once somebody's home. And perhaps it still was; perhaps there was a room for him and Mila—otherwise, how exactly did Ed expect him to get a decent look around the place? Kyle worried about having Mila so near while he was working; if things became dangerous, she'd surely get caught in the midst of it.

He looked over at her and groaned. Some very well groomed dogs, all of them leashed and restrained by a rather bemused dog-walker, surrounded her. They sniffed at her, their tails wagging furiously, and some of the larger ones craned their necks up to lick her hands and face, causing her to giggle.

Kyle wondered how he could enjoy being around someone like her—in anyone else all of that sweetness would've been positively diabetic to him. In fact it made him sad; every time he was reminded of her innocence, he smiled and enjoyed it at first, but would always look back on it with a sense of loss on his part. Why did it kill him to see her enjoy life so freely?

"Alright Mila, let's go." Kyle spoke softly and took her hand. She looked up and smiled, and untangled herself from the mass of dogs and leashes. With an apologetic look to the dog-walker, Kyle led Mila back toward Striae, and when he looked at her she seemed apprehensive. He quickly realized that she thought she was in trouble. "Don't worry, you're fine—you didn't do anything wrong. Just make sure you don't talk to strangers like that anymore, okay?"

She nodded, and the cowed look still darkened her big eyes.

"Now come on, Mila—you know better than that. Don't give me that look, you're making me feel like a heel."

"Sorry…"

"It's fine, I…" He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Why was this so hard? Why was everything so difficult nowadays? Why did things get worse, slowly and surely—when he should have been satisfied that morning, when he learned the fate of Bradley and when he gained Mila's friendship? Wasn't that enough? Why did he still stay up late at night, and why was it harder and harder to get out of bed every morning? With each passing day he became more tired—he felt more like a ghost than a man and he was sick of it. For God's sake, what was he missing?

"Kyle?" Mila brought him back from his reverie, and his head was reeling. He snapped to attention and startled her.

"Sorry, I… I'm just tired. I gotta get some rest… Jesus…" He rubbed his eyes and started over. "Mila, what I was trying to tell you is that I want you to be safe. And… and that's why I…" He thought it over for a minute; was leaving her all alone at a hotel—while he was gone for an indeterminate time period—really a good idea? He didn't actually trust anyone else enough to allow them the chance to get to her, and who's to say that she'd stay put and keep the doors locked just because he'd tell her to? Not a chance. "Aw Hell, just forget about it, alright? Stay close—I don't want you getting hurt or kidnapped or whatever, got it?"

Mila nodded quietly and shifted her backpack uncomfortably. Kyle took a step back, and offered another awkward apology.

"Sorry, Mila… I mean, we're in Chicago—it's the murder capital of the country. I'm just a little edgy, I…" _I need a drink, that's what,_ he thought glumly. "This city's filled with freakin' druggies and mobsters—it's worse than New York, so stay close."

"Alright. Sorry…" she demurred and averted her gaze, intimidated by his sudden exasperation and mistaken in who it was aimed toward. Not a hint of arrogance—still too innocent to spurn his protection, however bumbling and ineffectual it might actually be.

Kyle hung his head and sighed again. What was he doing? He didn't know anymore.

Mila stood watching him for a minute, and then took Kyle's hand again. He looked up and smiled tiredly. "Let's go inside, okay?"

"Okay." She returned his smile tenfold, genuine and warm, and squeezed his hand before letting go. They walked up the steps together, and Kyle banged on the big oak door, completely unprepared to meet the man on the other end.


End file.
